


Just Another Mad Brute

by th3rm0pyl43



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, M/M, Mutual Pining, salty old veteran!Veers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 14:11:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11163495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/th3rm0pyl43/pseuds/th3rm0pyl43
Summary: Had they not learned from the first time that half the world had gone to war? Of course they hadn’t. The only ones who could have told the truth were dead.





	Just Another Mad Brute

The ever-steadfast admiral was surrounded on all fronts. 

Even the sea, always spoken of as breathtakingly beautiful, was his enemy, gleaming deceptively when the sun rose in the east like fool’s gold, the sweet song of the Sirens promising salvation where there was only doom - breathtaking indeed in every sense of the word, and infested with beasts of black steel carrying bloodthirsty shadows of people, driven into a frenzy of hate by one single madman.

The sun bored into Admiral Firmus Piett’s eyes as he stood on the bridge of his battleship and stared into the sky above the blue waters of the Atlantic, the dark dots that were warplanes scattered across the clouds’ white canvas like a swarm of locusts. He had an armada at his side, and yet he felt more helpless than ever.

_ Max, where are you? _

* * *

 

Major General ‘Iron Max’ Veers had soon realized that he could trust nothing but own two eyes. 

The eternal roar of the tanks’ engines nearly drowned out the squelch of the mud beneath their tracks and the thunder of the howitzers and mortars. Just as the noise had faded to a low drone in the general’s ears, his nose had become numb to the stench of dirt, gunpowder, blood, sweat and steel, nevermind the rations all tasting like ground-up paper; thick gloves, bulky boots and robust tanker’s overalls denied him all sensation but heat and pressure. 

What was he even doing here on the front, where the war showed its true and hideous face?  _ War _ \- back home it had been just a word, an idea, painted in the gleaming colors of glory and honor and justice. Red, white, blue. Stars and stripes and screaming eagles. Of course the boys from across the big pond were so disturbingly eager to fight for freedom. 

It was a lie. All of it. Had they not learned from the first time that half the world had gone to war? Of course they hadn’t. The only ones who could have told the truth were dead. That was how it worked. One signed up and kissed one’s family goodbye and promised to be back by Christmas. It was all an adventure until the ships set sail and the planes lifted off and not a single of those boys had a clue that they would never see their loved ones again. 

Veers had hardly found words to describe that dull ache in his heart as he had stood there with a hollow smile on his lips and watched the boys walk away from the recruitment booth. They had laughed and joked among themselves, so full of life and joy. The youngest had been seventeen, the oldest twenty-two. Some of them had still been  _ children _ , for God’s sake. What kind of monster sent  _ children  _ to fight for some made-up idea that had no meaning?

He could have done something, of course. He could have spoken out in the hope that those who mattered and didn’t mind wouldn’t turn a blind eye to those who minded and didn’t matter. He could’ve rang up Winston, the old chap, and told him what was on his mind. Winston would have thanked him for being so sincere and then would quietly have had Veers labeled an enemy of the crown and left all the good citizens howling for the traitor’s blood. Simple as that.

As  _ rosy _ as things looked, Veers still preferred to stay alive. So he had kept his mouth shut and followed orders and, by some cruel twist of fate, was now left dancing with death on a barren landscape that might once have been lush and teeming with life. Yes, when it came down to it, he preferred to stay alive, but that did not keep him from wishing he could have been one of the boys from across the big pond who boarded their ships and planes that would take them to where there was nothing that could not kill them - from bacteria infecting wounds over finger-length bullets and fist-sized grenades to the tanks that crushed everything under their mud-caked tracks and roared like hulking iron beasts; nevermind the death that fell from above and out of the clouds like rain whenever another squadron of bombers passed overhead to drop their payloads as if taking out the trash. 

Veers wished he could have been one of those starry-eyed boys and stayed blissfully oblivious to all the suffering until the very end, like a lamb to the slaughter, so he would not have to feel the crushing guilt and this profound hopelessness and that goddamned ache in his heart.

And yet he wanted to live.

Veers zoned out, the noise fading to no more than a distant rumbling as he closed his eyes and brought up the mental image of the one thing it was still worth staying alive for. That _ thing’s _ name was Firmus Piett, and the hope of seeing him again was the only reason Veers still had to get out of his bunk at oh-three-thirty and leave his pistol in its holster when he went to bed at Lord knew what time. 

The pint-sized sailor even haunted the general’s dreams. And when he did not, Veers just lay there and wondered where Piett was. Was he close, sailing where unruly waters gnawed at the shores, or far away to the west - basking in the warmth of the sun, or braving the wild frozen sea? Veers did not know.

He might even be better off not knowing, he mused as he stared unseeingly at the smudged map that was full of markings and lines. All he knew was that he was going to see the admiral again, even if he had to blast a bloody million fanatics to Hell. 

That was all he  _ needed _ to know.

 


End file.
